When I watched a man run into his late father’s burning mansion, I thought he was mad. Eight hours later, as the fire finally died down, he emerged from the wreckage — alive. I tightened my helmet, hands a little shaky, though I’d never admit it. Today was Mom’s birthday. Another one, coming and going without a word between us. I could almost hear her voice in my head, crisp as ever: “She wasn’t right for you, Ethan. I know what’s best.” Yeah, she thought she knew best about everything, and back then, I let her. I’d loved Sarah, really loved her, and Mom never understood. After our last big fight, she faked my messages to another girl, making it look like I cheated on Sarah.
The evidence was too well-forged, and Sarah never believed me. I left home a month later, and since then, every birthday, holiday, and year went by without me calling her. Stubborn? Sure. But that hurt never really faded. “Hey, Ethan!” Sam’s voice pulled me back, and I glanced up. Sam, one of the old-timers, was grinning my way, looking as relaxed as ever. “You all set for tonight’s shift? Rumor is, it might be a quiet one.” “Don’t jinx it,” I said, trying to shake off the memories. I smiled back, though my heart wasn’t in it. The weight of today just wouldn’t lift. But work was work, and tonight, I planned to bury myself in it.
“Engine 27, Engine 27,” came the dispatcher’s voice, urgent and steady. “We have a report of a fire at Crestwood. Repeat, Crestwood. Large structure fire, possible occupants inside.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Crestwood? That’s gotta be the old mansion out on the edge of town. Wasn’t that place empty?” “Guess not,” I said, strapping on my gear, that familiar, low-grade rush of adrenaline kicking in. “We’ll find out soon enough.” In less than five minutes, we were tearing down the road, sirens blaring, engine roaring. I kept my eyes forward, watching the streetlights fly by. I could already see the glow on the horizon, bright orange against the darkening sky.
When we reached Crestwood, it looked like the whole world was on fire. Flames were leaping out of the mansion’s windows, thick, black smoke curling into the sky. “Let’s move!” our captain barked, and I snapped into action, grabbing a hose as we worked to get everything set up. But just as we were getting in position, I heard shouting. An angry, desperate man was pushing against a couple of cops by the barricade.
“I need to get in there!” he yelled, his voice strained. He was maybe in his twenties, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt already smudged with ash. “You don’t understand — my father’s things are in there!” “Sir, you can’t go in,” an officer replied, holding him back. “The fire’s too intense, it’s not safe.” “I’m the owner’s son!” he shot back, wrenching away from their grip, his voice breaking. “There’s something I need to get. It’s all I have left.” “Listen, kid, that house is a death trap right now,” another firefighter warned him, trying to reason with him.